Heist
by Era Yachi
Summary: It was a normal trip to the bank for Steve, Danny and Kamekona until it wasn't...Danny whumpage, Steve whumpage, and at some point someone gets really angry.
1. Red Sox

**_Heist_  
**

**Summary:** It was a normal trip to the bank for Steve, Danny and Kamekona until it wasn't...Danny whumpage, Steve whumpage, and at some point someone gets really angry.

**AN**: Ah, whump fics. I haven't written one of these in a long time. Alright, everybody in the pool!

* * *

_Chapter One: Red Sox_

-0-

"Can one of you please remind me why we're here again?"

Asked Danny the second time since they'd arrived.

Steve had a basketful of colorful choices when it came to witty comebacks, but Danno was exhausting them one by one with the accuracy and lethality of a sniper. 'Shut up, Danny' was starting to rise to the top of the list and at some point, he'd have to resort to it. It was only something he'd opt to say in a guaranteed losing situation, because his partner could stand in front of a hurricane and slow it down just by talking nonstop. Lose or win, Steve just wanted some peace and quiet.

This time, Kamekona saved him the trouble of cooking up a smart retort.

"Yo, DT, you need to chill, alright?" said the incredibly large, incredibly pertinent-as-to-why-they-were-here shrimp vendor. Today, he wore a bright red variation of his business' t-shirt, which made him stand out three times as much as usual amidst a crowd of mainland tourists. "I dunno how you do this in Cop Land, but this's how we tax-payin' citizens hafta cash our checks down here in at the bottom of the food chain. I need this money real bad."

"Okay. First of all?" Danny turned on him, holding up his hands to punctuate his words. Steve really hoped he wasn't going to turn the 'food chain' comment against him. "Cops pay taxes. It's a little-known fact, I know, but turns out law enforcement is made up of law-abiding citizens. And second, the bank machines are out of order, ergo this situation is an abnormal scenario in which we find ourselves, ergo why we're standing in a line that might as well be for a mid-season Red Sox game."

"Danny," Steve started.

"What? I'm a Red Sox fan. Just because I'm from Jersey doesn't mean I like the Jackals—but then, your idea of a professional sport is water boarding, so just this once, _don't_ judge me."

For a long moment, Steve just stared at him with slightly raised eyebrows.

Kamekona shook his head ruefully. "Man, I knew I shoulda taken the bus."

"No, no," Steve interjected sternly, lightly tapping the big man on the arm. "I told you, we owe you one, Kamekona. Danny's just jealous that I'm usurping the role of 'good cop'. He's really sensitive about being the sensitive one."

"You know, let's just...get the front of the line so I can go pick up Grace," Danny sighed, turning his back on them both to survey the inside of the bank.

Steve sent a mental shoulder pat in his direction, because he was fully aware of the source of his partner's bad mood. It was supposed to be his weekend with Grace. Except just this morning, Rachel had made last-minute changes to the plans due to a trip she was taking with Stan next weekend. Now instead of getting his daughter for two days, he would get her for less than twenty minutes. Or however much time it took to drive her from school, to Stan's house.

Honolulu West Estate Bank was a busy location on any given Friday. It was also a popular tourist stop-off, located ten minutes' from the beachfront, meaning half of the people here were not even local. There were kids, elderly couples, and newlyweds in every direction. The oily smell of coconut was everywhere.

But a ten-minute walk on a cloudless, 97 degree day wasn't an option for Kamekona, so this was Steve's method of paying back their favorite informant and sometimes babysitter. It beat the alternatives, which would normally require him to stand beside Danny in a t-shirt with Kamekona's face on it, sipping a flavor a shave ice he didn't even like. Advertising, Kamekona called it.

Steve glanced over at his partner, who was pacing in a small circle, slapping the top of a fist with an open palm. Even though Danny didn't need to get Grace for over an hour, it didn't take SEAL training to guess what was on his mind.

It _did_ take SEAL training to notice a sudden flash of dark clothing in the corner of his eye, an instant before hell broke loose.

Steve didn't get a chance to warn anyone. One moment, the bank was buzzing with impatient complaints and whining kids. The next, five men dressed from head to toe in black began rushing the mile-long queues from the general direction of the west entrance.

The tourists were slow to react to this abrupt threat. Then a woman screamed, and the first sight of a twelve-gauge shotgun flashing in the sunlight sparked mayhem. Dozens of bodies scrambled to escape, shoving, pushing, lunging—whatever it took to get to the doors.

Except Danny and Steve. They looked at each other, sharing silent communication. _Don't_, Steve thought fiercely, when he detected the question in his partner's eyes. _Don't do it. We're outnumbered, outgunned. We won't make it._

"Everybody, on the ground, _now_!" roared a deep voice from the center of the swirling chaos.

No one paid any attention until the shotgun went off. Plaster cascaded from the ceiling, some of it landing on the shoulder of the man who fired the round, as everyone within thirty feet of the shooter instinctively ducked and cringed. Slowly, as their primal urge to flee turned into one of frozen terror, mothers began to tug on their children's arms to pull them to the ground. Fathers, grandparents, and everyone else slowly inched to their knees.

Steve did the same, but his eyes were everywhere else. He took count of the number of enemies. Five, plus two more at least—they were securing the doors, herding people back towards the center of the floor. The deep-voiced man continued to shout orders.

"You, over there. You, sit here. Everyone with their hands behind their necks—I want the purses in the middle by my feet. Slide them across the floor. Same with cell phones—if anyone gets caught with a phone, I shoot them. If I catch anyone reaching for _anything_ else but a purse or a phone, I shoot them. _Do it_!"

Half of his mind continued to formulate a strategy to take these guys down. The other half couldn't believe that a high-security bank like West Estate was being robbed in broad daylight, six blocks away from the HPD.

Every fiber of his being didn't want to part with his phone. It was bad enough he didn't have his service weapon—it, along with his badge, was still in Danny's car. Neither he nor Danny had their vests on—none of these things were needed on a trip to a bank. A bank that shouldn't be robbed. Ever.

His phone was his link to Kono and Chin Ho. If he didn't tell them they were part of this, they'd be getting into this hostage situation blind.

"You! Put the phone on the ground, and slide it here! I won't ask again!"

Shit. Shit, the masked ringleader had noticed his hesitation. Catching a glimpse of Kamekona's wide-eyed stare, Steve pressed his lips together and did as instructed, then locked his fingers behind his neck. The large man in the center kicked his cellphone over to the growing pile of personal belongings.

He chose this moment to check on Danny again. His partner was pretty far away, but not far enough for Steve to not notice him try to conceal something in his pants' waistband. At first, he thought for a sickening moment that Danny had made a huge mistake and was trying to hide his phone on the captors.

With a chill, he then realized that Danny's phone wasn't gold. His partner was rightly trying to hide the Five-0 badge he'd forgotten to unclip from his belt.

"Hey!" Another one of the robbers had noticed his movements, and grabbed Danny's arm, jerking it upwards. Steve released a quiet sigh of relief when he saw that the badge was completely hidden. The robber grabbed the cellphone off his belt, chucked it into the pile, while Danny obediently placed his hands behind his head and gave the masked criminal a penetrating glare.

Steve went back to surveying the robbers, trying to tune out the terrified whimpers and sniffling of the thirty-six hostages that surrounded him. By now, the men had organized the kneeling captives into a rough circle, with Kamekona on Steve's right, close enough to bump elbows. Danny was on his left, but they were separated by a ten foot gap. Three of the captors were nowhere to be seen—no doubt halfway through breaking into the safe already.

"Please—please, let us go!" sobbed one of the tourist captives: teenage, with her friends, who looked horrified at her outburst.

"Shut up!" The closest bank robber pointed his automatic weapon directly down at her. "One more word out of you, and one of your BFFs get a bullet. So shut up!"

She buried her face in her hands and went back to quietly crying. Her 'BFFs' joined in, each too scared to make so much as a peep as their bodies shook with fear.

Now Steve's steel-blue eyes traveled to yet another man in black, who was approaching the Ringleader in the center of the group. Something about this one made him feel uneasy.

Very uneasy.

"We secure?" The Ringleader of the group asked, and paused as his subordinate whispered something to him. For a long moment, muscle-bound leader did and said nothing. Then, like a hawk, he twisted his head to look directly at Danny.

Steve's blood froze.

There was nothing he could do. If he moved, he would get shot. If he said anything, he'd get shot—or worse, one of the other hostages would get shot. There was no doubt in his mind that these bank robbers were ruthless and efficient. You would have to be either that, or incredibly stupid, in order to try to take down West Estate in broad daylight. So far, they weren't showing any signs of anything but crisp, clean organization.

He couldn't breathe, however, as the huge ringleader left his position and stomped right up to Danny. Without even a verbal warning, he swung the butt of the shotgun down hard across his face, sending him sprawling onto his hands. The other hostages let out a collective of gasps and cries of panic.

It took all of Steve's iron will to not move. His heart was pounding in his ears. He forced himself to keep waiting, to ignore all emotion and let the training take over.

While Danny was on his stomach, the black-clad leader knelt down and pulled the gold colored police badge out from where it had become dislodged. As he stood and examined it, Danny started to get back on his knees, but the brute obviously didn't like that. With military reflexes, the huge man reached out and grabbed Danny around the neck, then hoisted him up high enough to look into his eyes.

"What's wrong, cop?" he asked gruffly, giving him a small shake. "Yeah, you better be scared. You're in the wrong place, haole. You're gonna be my special guest from now on."

He dropped him on his knees again—Steve just caught the glance that Danny sent him, a look that said '_I'm fine'_ and also, '_What's the plan now, genius?'_

Steve only had one plan, and it probably wasn't going to work. But if it had any chance at all, he needed both Danny and Kamekona to cooperate with him. As the ringleader started patting Danny down, looking for a concealed gun or knife, Steve gave his larger compatriot a direct side glance, and was satisfied to see that Kamekona was calm enough to both notice and establish eye contact.

"Listen," the leader of Five-0 whispered very quietly. "Kamekona, whatever happens, follow my lead. Nod if you understand."

Kamekona bobbed his head ever so slightly, expressing complete and utter trust to the man in charge.

Then McGarrett did one of the stupidest things any hostage could do in any situation like this.

"Wait," he said, throwing every ounce of his crappy acting skills into his voice. "Wait, dude, wait. Dude, he's not just a cop—he can help you, like he's helping me and my brother right now. He's dirty—just ask him—"

"Who the fuck gave you permission to speak?" demanded one of the other robbers, the same man who had tipped of his leader about Danny's badge. Just as Steve suspected he would, he closed the distance to where he knelt and kicked him. Hard, and in the ribs.

God, it hurt. Still, this was a good sign, because it meant that his shabby thrown-together plan was gaining a foothold. Even better, Kamekona correctly took this as his cue. "Brah, you don't gotta be so violent, man," he said, squinting up at their captor. "We're all in this together, get it? This cop's been helpin' us launder money for months; today's your lucky day!"

_Okay, okay. Don't overdo it_, Steve thought urgently. Kamekona had a tendency to add unnecessary flair, which might get them into deeper trouble than they'd started with.

He saw the ringleader robber take something from one of his lackeys, and when he turned, Steve recognized it as a plastic zip-tie. Danny's arms were twisted behind his back by one of the men while the leader bound them together. "Kneel here. Don't move. One inch, and I pop your kneecaps, cop."

"Sure thing," muttered Steve's sarcastic partner.

Under the pressing stares of thirty-six pairs of eyes, the masked leader and his right-hand man sauntered over to where Steve and Kamekona knelt. The larger of the two crooks folded his legs to bring his dark brown eyes level with Steve's. "Let me get one thing straight, 'dude'," he said thickly. "I don't give a fuck who you are. I don't need no fucking help from anybody, let alone a dirty fucking cop. So I say with with great sincerity: shut the _fuck _up."

"You're going to need me," said Danny.

Steve saw something disturbing stir inside the eyes of the man in front of him. _Don't do anything stupid, Danny_,he thought furiously. Yes, he needed Danny to play along with him, but not if he purposely antagonized this bastard into deciding that keeping a live cop—dirty or clean—was too much trouble.

"You need me," Danny repeated. "You'll see. I guarantee you that phone will ring in less than five minutes, and when it does, it'll be Five-0 on the other end. I'm one of them. I can talk them into doing things your way."

"Want me to shut him up?" asked the leader's lieutenant, who looked like he might have slept with his P90 automatic more than a few times.

The leader shook his head. "He's gonna help us whether he's badge trash or not, 'cause if we don't get our ride outta here..."

Steve's jaw tightened defensively as he watched the muscled ringleader stand up. The dark man prodded Danny's slicked-back hair a couple times with the muzzle of his shotgun

"...then this haole cop's the first body we drop."

* * *

TBC


	2. Checklist

_**Heist**  
_

* * *

**AN: **Holy, that's a lot of readers. I'm tickled! No, really, someone's tickling me. Alright, EVERYONE OUT OF THE POOL.

* * *

_Chapter Two: Checklist_

-50-_  
_

Danny was making a mental checklist of things he knew about this heist. For example.

He'd had this funny, unsettling feeling the moment he stepped into the bank, that made him think there was something missing. Something obvious. Yet some reason, he couldn't place it, and now that they were in the middle of a robber, he knew exactly what it was. The security guards. There were no guards present, which could mean a whole lot of things. They might be in on the heist. They could be dead. They could be bound and gagged, herded into the back room and waiting for rescue. Or maybe it was the Hawaiian holiday for rent-a-cops.

Well, whatever happened, point was, there was no security backup.

Check.

It only took ten minutes to realize that the air was getting warmer. Somebody had shut off the air conditioning, concrete evidence that at least one of these knuckledusters had a brain. The air conditioning could be used against them, and had been used in many would-be bank heist situations in Honolulu before. All the HPD had to do was introduce knockout gas into the ventilation system, and the problem was solved. The brains of the outfit obviously did his homework.

Conclusion? Thirty-six hostages. That included the five tellers, the bank manager and assistant manager—thirty-nine if he included Steve, Kamekona and himself—plus at least seven bank robbers. There was a total of forty-six heat-generating bodies in the middle of a sealed bank lobby. It was going to get hot in here. Unbearably hot.

Then there was the ultimate slap in the face, as if finding out that Grace wasn't going to spend time with her Danno this weekend hadn't been bad enough. That slap of course, was his royal treatment by their captors now that his secret identity had been revealed.

Right. Right, and now he was a 'dirty cop'. Thanks, Steve. Really helpful.

The lobby had quieted over the past seven or eight minutes. People hiccuped or sniffed, but mostly it was a scene of helpless confusion. A mother ran her fingers through her daughter's hair, rubbing her back gently in consolation. An old man squeezed his wife's hand, probably to remind her that they'd survived fifty years of marriage, so they would survive this, too.

Sirens announced the arrival of the police, sirens that had since stopped wailing. The only reminder of their presence was the occasional flash of red or blue light through the window covers. Yes, they were out there. Danny had no doubt that Chin Ho and Kono were there, too, wondering why their teammates weren't answering their phones. Kono was probably worried. Chin Ho was probably annoyed. To see their faces when they found out he and Steve were trapped inside of this mess, Danny would give up his left kidney.

Well, their phones had been bagged and taken away. There was no chance of that happening now.

There was just one thing he really couldn't wrap his brain around. All seven of the bank robbers were here, in the lobby, standing guard over the hostages. If they'd wanted to get to the money, they would have taken the manager to the back rooms, but they hadn't. The middle-aged manager was sitting on the floor next to his assistant—judging by their matching rings, Danny guessed they were a married couple. Point was, there were no bags of cash, no computer hacking into the bank's mainframe, no apparent interest in getting into the safe at all.

They were waiting. It made sense; if they were smart enough to cut off the air conditioning and successfully take out the guards, then they probably had a plan for the money, too. It's possible they didn't predict having this many hostages, so they were being cautious and putting all their manpower into crowd control.

It seemed like an hour before the manager's cellphone finally started ringing. Instantly, the bank went dead silent.

The enemy ringleader picked the phone off the desk and brought it out into the lobby, letting it ring eight times before he pressed a button to answer it. On speakerphone.

"_Hello?_ _This is Detective John Keyes, HPD. To whom am I speaking?"_

Oh, no. No, no, no. Not Keyes. Danny suddenly wished that the call wasn't on speakerphone, because then he wouldn't know that every single life in this building was riding on the chance Keyes _wouldn't_ screw up.

Keyes was a good man. He was close to retirement, and a personal favorite of the HPD's higher-ups, but Danny knew a bad negotiator when he met one. Who had given Keyes the job of hostage negotiation? Someone sadistic or stupid? Both?

He realized Steve was looking at him. Danny scrunched his eyebrows in an expression he hoped read as '_Yeah, I know him, and we're screwed', _and hung his head to add to the effect. If McGarrett didn't get the message after that, then he'd denounce his friendship with the man for at least a week.

_"Hello?"_

"Don't worry, we are all here, Detective," said Ringleader Robber, that deep voice getting even creepier with the added condescending tone. "And you don't need my name. Just call me 'Phil'. Now me and my boys don't want to start hurting anybody, Detective. All we want is a van. No plates. No surprises. Just a white van with a full tank of gas. Maybe a case of Coconut Porters, too."

"_You sound like a guy who knows what he's doing, Phil_," said Keyes from the other end. "_But before we talk about that, I need you to take me off speakerphone. Can you do that for me?"_

"Shit, cop, I dunno," said the ringleader mockingly. "I mean, why? Because you don't want these nice folks here to hear you negotiate with their lives, is that it? Too bad, brah. If you got something to say, you can say it in front of my crew."

"_Listen, Phil. We can't give you a van without getting something back. How many people do you have with you now?"_

Phil laughed. It was a cold laugh. Danny began to suspect that this guy didn't care about anyone or anything, because no man in the world with a daughter to love or a wife to hold at the end of the day could laugh like that.

"We got one less than forty in here," he informed Keyes. "Yeah, and we have your cop buddy, too. Hey, Detective Williams, why don't you say 'hi' to your old pal Keyes for me?"

Steve was looking at Danny intensely. Danny didn't know whether or not to be worried, because it was clear Steve had no idea what to do right then, either. What could he do anyway, other than do as the big man instructed? Things were getting very complicated, and fast.

Apparently, he waited too long while thinking about it. His personal bodyguard, the friendly whistle blower who had been standing over his shoulder, stabbed him hard in the temple with the barrel of the P90.

"Yes, yes, I'm here!" he said loudly, pulling his head away and glaring up at the masked robber. "What do you want, seriously? I'm sorry your mother didn't hug you enough. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Dude, shut up!" Steve shouted without warning. "You're going to get me and Kamekona killed too, you dirty son of a bitch!"

And just like that, everyone on the other side of the yellow tape now knew that Steve and Danny were here. If only it came without a cost.

Though he wanted to, Danny couldn't look away or close his ears as two of the black-clad men approached Steve from the center of the circle. One of them grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him half-willingly, to his feet. The other drew back a fist—which glinted with steel knuckles—and punched him. Steve crumpled to the floor again, moaning pathetically.

Danny's chest felt like a snare drum, sweat pouring from his brow in alarm...but that subsided a little, as it dawned on him that this was just an act. Steve's 'wimpy surfer' character was doing the work they needed for them. He just really, really hoped that his partner didn't accidentally piss these guys off enough to make them want to shut his mouth permanently.

Still, there was blood streaming from a gash on Steve's face now. Danny added his partner's bruised rib and new facial scar to the mental checklist he was making. Under the 'reasons to shoot first and not ask questions' subheading.

Kamekona's lips were moving slightly, his round face uncharacteristically hardened, and Danny had a feeling that he wasn't reciting his grocery list.

"Sorry about that, Detective," said Phil, to the open cellphone. "It's tough keeping all these hostages in line. You know how it is. Sometimes you gotta make the hard choices, to make sure your little empire knows who's in charge."

Then he tossed the cellphone to his buddy standing nearby. Keyes' voice on the other end went ignored as Phil drew a nine mil from his belt, extending it towards Steve. Amidst the frightened sounds of the other hostages, Danny couldn't even hear Phil's footsteps as he strode boldly across the circle until the gun was two feet away from Steve's head.

_No. No, no, God, no._ It was all Danny could think, it was so sudden, so completely unpredictable and volatile that he only had enough time to feel his blood run cold.

And Steve...Steve didn't look scared, no. Superhero Steve couldn't have the decency to act human; he just stared down the barrel of that pistol defiantly—

—until Phil jerked the gun to the left and fired.

Kamekona's body twitched under the impact the the bullet, which ripped through his right shoulder. Danny saw Steve's face contort, saw blood blossoming around the lethal wound, saw spittle fly from his own mouth as the mental buildup of 'no's found his voice.

"_What was that? Phil? Answer me; what the hell just happened in there?"_

Also, Keyes' voice fit in somewhere, and it sounded strangely louder than it actually was.

"That's the sound of the clock ticking," said the ringleader, after his buddy tossed the phone back to him. "You got half an hour to get back to me on that ride I requested. If he dies before then, that ain't my fault. Phil out."

He hung up. As he did, his dangerous eyes flicked over to meet Danny's with a wicked sense of purpose, and somehow, Danny got the impression he hadn't forgotten his promise from earlier.

* * *

TBC

AN: Right, did I mention Kamekona whump? Anyway. Things aren't going well. Who's the idiot who turned off the air conditioner? I blame the liberals. Stay tuned.


	3. Liberitas

_**Heist**_

* * *

_Chapter Three: Liberitas_**  
**

* * *

-0-

As soon as the line went dead, Chin Ho looked directly into Kono's eyes, and they knew.

One of their friends was injured. They knew this because the last thing they had heard before 'Phil' gave his final warning was Danny's panicked yell. And taking into consideration that was Steve's voice that had set off the shooter, the logical conclusion was that Steve was the one who was shot. Or worse, dead.

They stood with Detective Keyes amidst a semi-circle of HPD cruisers, each car manned by at least two uniforms. Behind the yellow tape, wooden barriers were being established to hold back the growing crowd. People were milling about with their cellphones out, trying to take a clear picture of the bank's entrance. Two ambulances stood by, paramedics on high alert, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. There wasn't a single thing they hadn't prepared for, but none of it eased the tension for the two remaining members of the Five-0 task force.

There was an awkward silence, as Keyes stroked his weathered face worriedly. "I've got people pulling background on the people we know are inside," he said, in a tone that suggested he sympathized with Kono and Chin Ho's current emotional state. "Manager's name is Mark Fausch, married to Jane Fausch, who's his assistant manager. They've run this place for fourteen years without incident. Then, this morning, Fausch's step-brother, Sam Kiekua was found murdered in his kitchen. Tortured, and then had this throat cut. Very personal. So my working theory is that these guys are probably responsible for Mr. Kiekua's demise, and now they've moved on to the next family member."

In a daze, Chin tried to focus his mind away from the sound of the gunshot, and slowly soaked up that information. When shots were fired in a hostage situation, a SWAT team was normally sent in to save as much as they could from a highly elevated situation. Right now, he was very glad that SWAT hadn't arrived yet.

"Max," he said faintly, before snapping out of his stupor. "I remember; Max was the attending M.E. Something about gang symbols carved into the victim's skin over the heart and on the bottoms of his feet. The Ritas Liberitas, wasn't it?"

Keyes' brow furled. He flipped his phone shut and clipped it onto his belt rigidly. "How the hell do you know that?"

Softly, Kono explained. "Max is the kind of person who...takes interest in things other people normally don't," she said. "But the RL Cartel, really? Since when do gangs get involved in high-stakes bank heists?"

"They don't." Keyes' eyes showed a dark, thoughtful glint. "But that doesn't rule out the chance they were hired by someone bigger with a weaker constitution. We got no time to play guessing games—we need to focus on getting those hostages out of there. You've got two Five-0 operatives inside, and I'm still trying to figure out if that's a blessing or a curse."

"And Kamekona," Kono added.

"What?"

"He's a friend of Danny's," Chin offered, since alluding that the shrimp vendor was an informant and an ex-con would probably distract Keyes from the real threat. Chin Ho was well aware of Keyes' reputation for biting off more than he could chew and chasing leads that normally led to dead ends. "I should go to the first victim's house, see if I can find out who he's been in contact with. The victim's phone?"

"Sent it to forensics. I'll tell them to e-mail you," Keyes replied dubiously, eying him over his large, greying mustache. "Detective Kelly, in twenty-fives minutes, I have to ask the man holding your boss hostage for more time. I suspected you would want to be here for that."

Kono heard in Detective Keyes' voice the same thing she often heard in cops' when they were speaking to a victim's family. Suddenly, she knew Keyes had already given up on Steve, Kamekona and Danny. At the very least, he expected one of them to die—whoever it was that Phil shot ten minutes ago.

She looked at her cousin again; this time, the unspoken message they shared was identical. They would _not_ leave their teammate's lives in Keyes' hands.

"I'll come with you," Kono said flatly, and together, they peeled away from Keyes' squad car and began striding to the side of the street where Chin was parked.

"Where are you going, cuz?"

"To find a white van," she replied without stopping.

* * *

-0-

The floor of the lobby was smeared with blood. The cardigan that Steve had been graciously gifted by a concerned elderly hostage was soaked, but it was doing its job well enough to slow the bleeding. It just wasn't solving the problem.

Kamekona, for all his great qualities, was not a healthy man, and his high blood pressure was making a mess out of everything. As far as McGarrett could tell, the bullet hadn't hit anything vital, but there was no exit wound and it was probably lodged somewhere where it might cause massive internal hemorrhaging.

"Hey," he said lowly, noticing the telltale flickering of the big guy's eyelids. "Hey, hey. You need to stay focused, Kamekona. Who's going to watch our backs if you go passing out on me?"

"Shoots," Kamekona said thickly, sounding understandably tired. He was lying on his back, sweat glistening on his forehead. "S'not the first time been shot, braddah. This ain't no pain at all."

"If you're talking about paintball, then it's not the same," Steve countered with grim humor. There was a hot flame of anger just flickering under the surface of his calm, but McGarrett wasn't about to lose his own focus over this. Not that he didn't want to rip holes in Phil's face with a serrated knife for shooting a friend—no, that feeling was there. Only now, he knew that this man was screwed up in his head, and the last person on Earth who should be holding a gun. So he had to stay calm, and keep reasoning.

The robber who had been standing next to Danny suddenly moved, giving Steve the first unblocked view of his partner since the shooting. Danny, of course, still had his hands bound behind his back—only now, they had pushed him back so he was propped against a pillar.

Steve took the unexpected opportunity to briefly lock eyes with him. Danny mouthed something, to which Steve shook his head, not understanding. A familiar flare of disbelief and frustration washed over Danny's face. He rolled his eyes back, then mouthed the words again—this time, much slower. _How. Is_. _He_. _Doing?_

Steve looked down at Kamekona's face, took in his shallow, wheezy breathing, and shook his head again. He discreetly gave the hand signals for 'Needs Medic Urgently', then, with the slightest smirk he could manage, added the signal for 'Stay Put' and 'Don't Move'.

Danny mouthed something back with a very exaggerated pronunciation of the letter 'F'.

McGarrett finally turned half of his attention to Phil, only to discover him crouching over the group of female bank tellers across the circle. Phil was snatching their name tags one by one, inspecting them with wild eyes. When he finished with the last one, he turned on the bank manager, grabbed him by the lapels and hoisted him up.

"Where is Emelia?" he demanded furiously.

"I—I—don't have any idea who—"

"_Where is she_? Don't fuck with me, Fausch! Where—is—Emelia?"

"I—I don't know! N—No one named Emelia works for me...no, no, I swear! It's the truth! P-Please...please don't kill me. I have three kids. Just please...don't shoot."

Fausch's stammering didn't help him soften the man's heart. Phil dropped him in a heap on the floor before pointing his nine mil down at Mrs. Fausch. "Where is Emelia?"

"I don't know," she sobbed, shaking her head and grabbing her husband's jacket.

The gun went up again. Phil turned back to the group of five bank tellers and looked them over almost desperately. He seemed like he was afraid to act aggressively around them, afraid that 'Emelia' might spring out at any moment and beat him down for it. Either he was looking for someone he wanted to kill, someone he feared, or he was on the hunt for someone he actually cared about.

For now, Steve was grateful that his attention was distracted from his attempts to save Kamekona's life. None of the bank robbers appeared to care whether or not their injured hostage died; worse, none of them acted as though Phil's outburst surprised them. Which could only mean that more irrational outbursts could happen anytime. Wiping his brow on his shoulder, Steve turned his eyes back to the blood seeping around the wad of ruined wool.

This wasn't going to work. Kamekona was definitely going to die if they didn't get him to an ambulance. It was time to start negotiating.

Steve placed one of Kamekona's limp hands on top of the knotted cloth and squeezed, then stood up.

Five guns clicked consecutively, pointed straight at him. Steve raised his blood-caked arms in the air to show he meant no harm.

"Listen to me. He's going to die, Phil. You either have to let him out, or let someone in who can treat him," he started to say, hoping to God that at least one of these masked vigilantes had some sense of decency.

Before Phil or any of the robbers could tell him where to shove it, one of the women in the tellers group—a soft-looking, Hawaiian native with dark hair—timidly raised a hand. "I can," she said, swallowing. "There's a kit just behind this desk. I can treat him, if...if that's okay."

Phil whirled on her, brown eyes glinting angrily. Steve knew he had to not give him the chance. "If Kamekona dies, dude, the cops aren't going to give you anything. Just...just don't let my brother die, man."

"Please," the teller added, looking up at Phil pleading eyes.

For a long moment, chilling silence fell over the room. Finally, the leader of the gang made a gesture with his gun towards Steve's position. "Do it," he conceded. "Just don't fucking try anything. Beef, watch her."

She didn't have to be told a second time. One of the black-clad robbers, 'Beef', picked her up by the elbow, escorted her to where the first aid kit was stashed behind her head, and then pushed her across the room to where Steve sat with the weakening Kamekona.

"Hey," Steve said gently, as soon as she knelt down, catching her eye. "My name's Steve. This is Kamekona."

"Hey pretty lady," Kamekona slurred in his semi-conscious state.

Obviously struggling to keep her fear in check, the teller nodded faintly and started to open the kit. "Alice," she croaked. "Alice Brown."

"Thank you, Alice," Steve said meaningfully, gripping her arm for a brief second. "Thank you for helping my brother. Were you..."

"I was in med school, for a year," she explained. Steve noted that she was sounding braver and stronger by the second, probably fueled by a slew of good memories attached to that statement. "We, um...I have to dig the bullet out. I—I'll need your help."

"You've got it. Tell me how to help."

* * *

-0-

It was a nice house.

But then, Chin was accustomed to walking into nice beachfront homes with the expectation of finding something terrible just around the next corner. Marble counter tops, a living room with a glass wall that overlooked the ocean, top-of-the-line kitchenware, a skylight—this place put the term 'luxury model' to shame.

Then, in the dining room, something from a horror movie.

Though the crime scene had long since been processed, it was still very much active. Blood was splattered all over the laminated wood flooring, turning the single mahogany chair into a crusty, rust-red throne of death. The ropes that had been used to tie Mr. Kieuka down were on the ground, cut away by the body crew in order to move the victim to a gurney.

Chin looked at the grotesque scene for three seconds, then moved on. It might have been wrong, but he didn't care about this murder. He only cared about finding information that would help his friends survive their own attempted murders.

One of the officers who was still on-scene, a junior detective named Phelps, followed him closely behind. "So, Lieutenant," he said, using Chin's rank in a rather admiring way. "What is it exactly we're looking for?"

"Anything. Photos, documents, any kind of evidence that suggests Kieuka might be involved with the Ritas Liberitas."

As they moved into the next room, a den-like area with a black desk and computer setup, Phelps continued on somewhat dubiously. "Well, can't say much about that, sir, but...here, follow me. Something tells me that this has a lot to do with your investigation."

Chin gave the younger detective an inquisitive look as Phelps scooted around him, taking the lead. Chin followed Phelps down the hallway, past the staircase, and into a room that looked like it had been carved right into the wall. What he saw inside, he could not have expected inside the house of a prestigious bank manager's step-brother.

It was a dim crawlspace, no bigger and barely brighter than an old-fashioned dark room used for developing photo negatives. Instead of tables with trays and tweezers, however, the room's largest wall was covered in hundreds of papers and pictures. And each and every single picture on this wall of mystery was of a young girl. Some looked as young as two or three years of age, others ranged all the way up to eight or night.

A small part of him was glad Danny wasn't here to see this.

"I know," Phelps' young voice broke the silence again, as he shone a small flashlight over the faces. "One of the C.S.I.s noticed a crack in the wall, and this is what we found. I'm thinking pedophile, stalker...bastard got what he deserved, if this is the thing he's into. Here," he said, putting a latex gloved finger on a small bare spot on the wall. "This is the only empty space, and there's a pinhole. Someone took down one of the photographs."

"Yeah. Recently," Chin agreed, lightly brushing another one of the photos and rubbing his fingers together. "The others are covered with dust, but this spot was disturbed before it could settle again. What about Kiekua's computer?"

"From what I heard, nothing special on it. Business stuff, mainly. Looks like this guy kept his personal life off the record, away from electronics. Harder to get caught that way."

"Impossible. No, this guy built a room in this house with a concealed door just to hide these pictures. Any information he has on these girls won't just be hiding in plain sight. I think whoever tortured and killed him knew about this room, took down the photo, and then checked his computer."

Phelps was hot on his heels as Chin burst out of the hidden room, and stormed back into the den. The Five-0 detective leaned over the keyboard and woke the computer out of sleep mode.

"What are...you doing?" said Phelps.

"Something an old partner of mine taught me," he replied, typing in a few things, then calling up a window that displayed the computer's printing history. "Even if someone permanently deletes information off a computer, they almost always forget that most modern printers keep a separate memory log of recently printed documents. If they don't clear that history, then..."

The printer hummed to life and proceeded to spit out the last thing it had printed. Chin took the cooling paper from the tray and pointed to the time stamp in the corner.

"That's roughly around the estimated time of death," Phelps surmised. Clearly, he was impressed.

But Chin's eyes were already drifting over the page, taking in the nerve-wracking amount of information it provided.

"Oh, no," he whispered.

* * *

TBC

AN: Well. Mindless whump is just silly. You have to have plot, too. Yes, I have written a nice plot alongside this planned whumpathon. I still have my freedom.


	4. Four Shots

**_Heist_**

**Author's Warning:** The amount of swearing in this chapter exceeds the PG-13 rating of this story a tiny bit. It's Phil's fault. Someone broke his Spice World DVD.

* * *

_Chapter Four: Four Shots_

-0-_  
_

"Emelia Branco. Daughter of Joseph and Katarina Branco. She was reported missing in 1988, after she disappeared while playing with her older brothers. She was only three years old."

Chin had brought the print-out and the junior detective both to his car and was halfway back to the West Estate bank. Phelps was driving, giving Chin free hands to make the call to the detective in charge. It had taken a while to get a hold of Keyes, because he had to call another detective's cellphone and wait for them to pass it on. Keyes' phone was being reserved for the negotiation and was otherwise unreachable.

"_And you think this missing girl has something to do with a _bank robbery_?__" _

Chin counted a few seconds to maintain his patience before replying. "Yes, I'm sure. There's evidence to suggest that Mr. Kieuka was involved in a kidnapping ring for young girls. It looks like his killer found the evidence, then erased the information from his computer."

_"What part of this tantalizing discovery has anything to do with my case, Detective Lieutenant?"_

Phelps took his eyes off the road for a moment to give Chin a side-long glance, and the detective imagined for a moment that he looked nervous. This was probably his first time getting involved in something other than housesitting, Chin realized. He turned his attention back to his conversation with Keyes.

"The document printed off Kieuka's computer at the time of murder is a resume for a twenty-two year old woman named Emelia Brown, dated October of 2007," he said. "A resume for a full-time position at Honolulu West Estate Bank. Kiekua's listed as her emergency contact."

Silence on the other end, except for the sound of the wind and muttering from the crowd.

"Detective Keyes, Emelia Branco's three older brothers are active members of the Ritas Liberitas cartel," Chin finished, hoping in the deepest part of his hear that he wouldn't have to explain why he knew that information. It would only complicate matters.

"_Alright."_ Keyes' gravelly voice finally answered him on the line. "_Get back here as soon as you can."_

Chin pressed the button to end the call. He gave Phelps a nod that he hoped was confident, because right now, he was dreading the fact that he would have to drag the past into present once again. He knew about Emelia Branco because the print-out hadn't just been a resume; the third page had been a copy of what he assumed was the missing photo from Kieuka's wall. It was also a photo that Chin's uncle had shown him many times before, because it was part of what haunted the retired HPD officer.

Chin didn't want any of this to get out, not after what his uncle's family had been through. But if it was for Steve and Danny, then it would be a small price to pay.

* * *

-0-

It was hot. Damn, it was hot. Was Grace sitting outside in the sun, wondering where her Danno was? Rachel was going to murder him if Grace got a sunburn. Why couldn't bank robbers pick cloudy days to pull their heists?

Because there were so many cloudy days in Hawaii.

From where Danny was sitting, he'd been given an extremely limited understanding of the events unfolding around him. First, the men in black—who were seriously messing with the mental image of Danny's heroes from his favorite Will Smith movie—had ripped through all of the women's purses. They didn't take anything, because that would have been a conveniently predictable thing to do. No, instead they shredded the wallets, sent pieces of ID scattering everywhere. Family photos were inspected and then thrown to the ground. One of the robbers dumped the bag of cell phones on the floor, and they started going through those, too.

Danny's keen, infallible skills of deduction told him that they were looking for something. Something that most likely had something to do with 'Emelia'. Now obviously these brainiacs didn't know what she looked like, or Phil wouldn't have bothered looking at their name tags.

Great, fine. So why take an entire bank hostage in the middle of the day, just to find one woman?

Some things even the great detective Danny Williams couldn't figure out.

It wasn't until his personal bodyguard waved Friendly Phil over to his spot the Danny _really_ began to pay attention. The thirty-minute deadline had passed five minutes ago, and there was no phone call going in or out. Something was wrong.

"What are we supposed to do, man?" asked the other masked robber, who judging by his voice, was younger and far more nervous than his leader. "We can't take them all _and_ Fausch. What about the cop?"

Phil was quiet, but by no means did this make him calm. Danny could tell by the constant flexing and unflexing of his hand around the firearm's grip—henchman number two's words were eating at him. Obviously, he didn't have what he came here for, and his main objective was slipping further and further away.

So Phil and his buddies planned on holding up a bank, just to grab some girl named 'Emelia', and they what—just assumed that they would definitely get their van, and get away cleanly? Danny was starting to think he was wrong about these guys. They _were_ organized, sure, but this wasn't a well-organized heist.

What they were _supposed_ to do was stall for time, drag things out, wear down the police until they got their way. The media would be hounding the HPD for a resolution, and robbers used that fact to their advantage. But these guys, Phil especially, they wanted _out._ Now. If Phil didn't get what he wanted and soon, he'd start throwing hostages into the jaws of collateral damage until their bodies purchased a one-way ticket out of the fire for him and his crew.

Fire. Oh, yes, fire. What a great thought, Danny. It's four hundred degrees in here, you're itching in places you've been uninformed about until now, but sure, let's keep building on that. See if it's possible to actually melt by the power of human thought.

There was a moment in every heist, every criminal attempt, no matter how well organized or spur-of-the-moment, where something snapped. A moment where, even if the plan were going smoothly, the leader of the heist answered the call of that most basic, primal instinct to flee. A moment where the main objective was to survive, to fight again another day. Grab and run.

That moment was right now.

"I know we came here for Emelia," said Phil's second-in-command, as Danny pretended to not overhear them. "But I told you. I _told_ you. You can't just waltz into a bank and find a woman from a twenty-year-old photo, man. I told you it couldn't work like this! And they ain't gonna let us drive outta here with six hostages! We have to make a deal with the cops, man."

Phil turned his head to look longingly at the four bank tellers all huddled in a line. Then the moment passed, and the wild glint returned to his eyes. "They won't know we got any hostages," he said cryptically, and got out his cell phone.

Danny decided now was a good time to get Steve's attention. He made a throat-clearing sound, shifted his legs a bit, and his partner looked up. Then he glanced at Phil, and he made the slightest nod to indicate he understood.

Phil hit a button and then handed the phone to his second-in-command. A few seconds later, Keyes' voice came back on over speakerphone.

_"I was starting to worry, Phil. Is everything all right in there?"_

"Oh, me and my boys, we're just fine," said Phil, loudly. "Where's my van, Detective Keyes?"

"_We have someone working on it, Phil. Here's the thing; we need you to give us something first. You shooting one of the people in there like that—that didn't start us out on the right foot."_

"You should give me credit for not shooting two. Or five," Phil snapped back. "All I shot was one fat guy who looked ready to keel over anyway." He lifted his gun and pointed it at Steve without warning, taking three steps closer to him. "If you really want, I could shoot his buddy, too. They say they're in business with your dirty cop here, so technic'ly that's like doing you a favor, right?"

_"You could do that. Or, you could put your gun away, and let me help you find your sister, Philio."_

Phil froze solid. He didn't drop the gun, but the way his eyes glazed over, it was obvious to Danny that he'd made the connection. Shooting Steve was no longer in anyone's interests.

"How the fuck do you know that?" Phil asked, whirling on his buddy and storming over to where the phone lay open on his palm.

_"This isn't about money, Philio. That's your name, right? Philio Branco. We're cops; we're good at investigating things. Just trust me when I say that I have information about your sister that you don't. Information that I'm guessing you need."_

Was it just Danny, or was Keyes actually doing a good job at this? No, it had to be Chin's work. Or Kono's. Whatever was going on outside, someone was feeding Keyes information that might help get the hostages out of there. And now he knew who 'Emelia' was—Phil's sister. One question amongst a hundred left unanswered, like how Phil wouldn't recognize his own sister or why he would do something this stupid just to find her. Still, this was progress.

After a long pause, Phil seemed—for the first time in thirty-nine minutes—to calm down a little. "Fine. We deal. Tell me what you know, cop."

* * *

-0-

Steve crouched next to the unconscious Kamekona. His friend wasn't bleeding as much now, and his new friend Alice had managed to extract the bullet with just a pair of tweezers and local anesthetics. For only a year's medical study, she behaved like a pro in the field. Thankfully, her efforts had just increased Kamekona's chances of surviving from slim to very likely.

So when Phil raised the gun at him second time, he bristled. Not for himself, but because Alice was in the line of fire. And also because he was pretty sure Phil's first shot had been meant to kill Kamekona, not wound him, Steve wasn't feeling confident about this psychopath's aim.

When that same psychopath finally agreed to negotiate, he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. The gears and cogs were finally turning; getting these people out of here might actually be possible, so long as Keyes continued the good work.

_"First, I need you to let some of the folks you're holding go," _said Detective Keyes, in response to the robber's demand for information. "_That's how this works, Phil. You give me something, and I give something back."_

Phil was hesitating. The way his body read, it was clear he thought he was falling for a trick. Math probably wasn't his strong suit. He had thirty-nine hostages, one of which was in critical condition, and he was having control issues over releasing just a handful of them.

_"You have three dozen scared, innocent people with you, Phil," _Keyes said, echoing Steve's thoughts. _"You said yourself it's hard to control that many people at once. So here's my offer_—_"_

"Not Fausch," Phil interrupted him angrily. "Fausch and his trophy wife bitch stay here with me, got it?"

_"Mr. and Mrs. Fausch are non-negotiable, Phil_—"

"I said—not—Fausch!"

_"Fine. Fine, I'm willing to discuss with you the terms of their release. There's no need to get angry—we're just talking, Phil. You got kids and elderly in there?"_

Phil glanced over the pool of dull, listless faces as if he were seeing the hostages for the first time. "Yeah, a few."

"_We'll start there, then. Release the kids, the mothers and the elderly. We also need one of our own guys to come on out—"_

Steve heard Danny groan. There was the wrench.

All six of Phil's associates had a physical reaction to that; even Keyes himself stuttered in mid-sentence for a moment, because the detective realized his gargantuan mistake in the exact same moment as Steve and Danny. Funnily, Steve was not shocked in the slightest. He felt dismayed, let down, and frustrated all at once, but at least some part of him had prepared for this scenario from the moment he'd made his presence here known to Keyes' people.

"Son of a bitch," growled Phil slowly, drowning out Keyes' voice. "_One_? Did you just say—'cause I know I just heard him say _one_ of his 'guys', didn't you, Beef?"

It was a rhetorical question, no matter that it was directed at the masked robber standing above Steve and Kamekona. Philio Branco was many things—unstable, desperate, rude, ruthless to list a few—but an idiot he was not. He probably didn't hear the voice on the other end of the conversation; Keyes might as well be talking to the pavement now, because there was only one person in that lobby Phil had any interest in right now.

"You." Branco pointed his gun at Steve, again, and this time there was no certainty it was going to go away. "You're a fucking_ cop_. I knew there was somethin' funny about you, but you were playing me. You played all'o us real good, potato."

"Listen," Steve rose to his knees, raising his hands into the air again. Beside him, Alice stared on in wide-eyed fear. "Just listen to me. I did what I had to; I didn't want to make things worse—"

"Make things _worse_?" Phil was yelling now, completely out of control. There wasn't a person alive on Earth who could talk him down from this level of crazy. There was a hatred for law enforcement fueling this man's rage that couldn't be sated by anything but vengeance. "Fucker, you put on a show so you could hit me from behind when I wasn't lookin'! Well, guess what? Show's over, haole!"

At the end of the day, Steve would remember the sound of exactly four gunshots. The first had already happened. It would stick in the back of his mind every time he dealt with Kamekona from now on—that ear-splitting _bang_ which made his soul jump a little bit. After that, there were three more _bangs_, three noises that would cause him more pain than he had ever felt since the day he was forced to listen to his father's murder.

The second shot was now. Steve waited for the bite of the bullet, to feel the impact shatter a rib, the blood cooling against his skin—

Which never came. It was then he knew the shot wasn't for him, that the barrel of the nine mil wasn't pointed at him anymore. He saw the red dot grow into a stain on Danny's pale yellow shirt, and the switch in Steve's mind that controlled his SEAL training flicked off. 'Danno' was stuck in the back of his throat; somehow, the other hostages found it in them to scream and shirk away from the violence, but Steve? Steve was the image of a choking ghost, mouth agape, insides churning.

Phil pulled the trigger a few more times, but a metallic clicking announced his cartridge was empty. Swearing, he threw the spent weapon at the man standing above Danny. "Tye, you gave me an empty gun. Shit. Would everybody shut _the fuck up_?"

But the many kids in the circle of hostages only reacted to more yelling by crying even louder. Their panicked mothers begged them to be quiet, but children were not capable of remaining calm when people were being shot. This wasn't the movies. It was real blood, real bullets, and how did they know they weren't all going to die?

At this point, this wasn't about rage or heat-of-the-moment murder. Phil looked _straight_ at Steve, read his face, and there was a smile in the son-of-a-bitch's eyes. "Take this haole trash in back and finish it, Tye," he told the man standing over Danny.

Danny was slouched over to one side now, face twisted with pain. 'Tye' looked down at him through the holes in his ski mask, then reached down grab his arm and haul the bleeding Five-0 to his feet.

All Steve could hear was the wheezing, labored breath coming from his partner, the blood pounding in his own ears, the cold click of a pistol being cocked.

"Danny. Danny! Don't," he begged, watching Danny being half dragged, half led across the lobby floor to the branch manager's door. Denial charged Steve's voice. "Please. Please, _don't do this. _You'll get nothing! I swear to God, if you do this, you'll wish you were _dead_, Branco! I'll kill you myself!"

His eyes met Danny's just before his bloodstained shirt vanished from sight. Under the thick glaze of pain, his partner's gaze read pleadingly. Not for his life, not begging Steve to save him, but for the person whose name he mouthed at the same time.

_Grace._

Steve didn't get to respond. Didn't get to promise him that he'd do everything in his power to look after Grace, to do everything her father couldn't do for her anymore. 'Tye' pushed him through the office door and slammed it behind them. The next few seconds were agonizing.

Then the last two gunshots shattered his mind.

Twenty seconds or twenty minutes went by; he wasn't sure which. Steve's view of the dark, wooden door with the gold-painted name plate was blurred, and a headache of consequence threatened to split him apart. Finally, when the silence that followed the deafening shots seemed like it would swallow him, the door opened again, and out stepped the man clad in black.

Tye looked over at Phil, and tossed him back the nine mil. "Cop's dead, brah."

Phil pulled the chamber back on the gun, then slid it back with the palm of his hand, and smirked in Steve's direction.

"Not all'o them."

* * *

TBC


	5. Blood

**_Heist_  
**

* * *

**AN:** Hey. I've updated at least once every 24 hours for the past 4 days. You people are really pushy, you know that? It's not like I've got interns waiting on me hand and foot. Not yet, anyway.

In poor old Keyes' defense, he was doing an exceptional job until that slip (that I planned from the start, so his character was doomed before he was even invented for that role). No, his pension is not up for grabs.

* * *

_Chapter Five: Blood_

-0-_  
_

When Phelps drove the car into the West Estate bank's parking lot, Chin thought he felt the air change. It felt tense. In the fifteen minutes it had taken to drive the rest of the way back from Kiekua's place of residence, something had changed, and his gut instinct told him it wasn't for the better.

Then he saw the white van. And the black cars parked alongside it. And the two people in FBI jackets.

"This is either really good, or really bad," Phelps observed as he shifted the car into park.

Detective Keyes was standing next to Kono, talking to the federal agents. Chin wasted no time getting out of the passenger side and rushing over to group, because there was a solemn expression on his cousin's face he had not seen since the news of Jenna Kaye's murder at Wo Fat's hands.

One of the agents turned to face him as he approached—a greying man with a receding hair line and a no-nonsense, square jaw. The FBI senior removed his sunglasses and looked Chin Ho over, either sizing him up, or wondering who the hell he was.

"Special Agent Doyle, Agent Coffman, this is Detective Lieutenant Chin Ho Kelly of the HPD," Keyes introduced with a defeated sigh. There was definitely something unusual about the way he stood, as if he'd aged five years during the time Chin and Kono had been gone. "Detective, the FBI are taking over this scene effective immediately. I've been told to stand down as the lead investigator of this case."

"That's because it's our bank," interjected 'Doyle', but in a manner that was strictly informative. Not condescending. "I understand you're part of the task force Five-0 as well? Detective Kalakua, we just met her. I'll get straight to the point, then. This bank is part of a secret witness protection system that our specialist Agent Kiekua has been running for the past thirty years."

That information hit Chin like a block of cement. "I don't understand," he said, after a short pause. "You mean the Fausches are under witness protection?"

"No," said the other agent, Coffman, who was a young woman who clearly had no desire to remove her own sunglasses. "We mean Fausch is helping us run the program. You're familiar with the case of Emelia Branco?"

Only too well. But Chin responded with a nod rather than saying anything.

"Not as well as you'd think," Doyle said. "Emelia Branco didn't go missing in 1988, she was taken into FBI custody in 1992. Don't worry, Detective. I know all about your uncle's personal investigation into Emelia's case, because I was the one who told him to drop it fifteen years ago. He was a good cop; don't let no one else say otherwise."

Before Chin could absorb any of this, Doyle's female partner cut in and continued to spout information in the style that only highly trained FBI agents could pull off.

"Emelia's name was officially changed to Alice Brown as soon as she was moved into foster care, but we just found out recently that she's been going by 'Emelia' again. Which we know, because we're the ones who wiped Kieuka's hard drive in what was apparently a futile attempt to prevent the HPD from finding out about Kieuka's association with the bureau."

"You tapped our phone conversation," Chin concluded, as that was the only explanation as to why they would be sharing this information _now_. Five-0 and the HPD were deeply involved.

"Agent Kiekua was a good man. He cared about the kids he saved from criminal organizations," said Doyle softly, a darker tone entering his voice. "I doubt he told those Liberitas bastards anything before they killed him, so they only know what you know. No recent photos, no contact information. Just that she works here at West Estate, and that we're hot on their trail."

"And that's why they're in such a hurry to leave," said Coffman. "They don't know we're already here, and we can use that to our advantage."

"Yeah, we could have. Now we have to hope our backup plan pulls through." Coffman's older partner gave Keyes a scathing look that needed no cross-jurisdiction translation. That prickling sense of unease that Chin felt upon arriving returned in full force, and he just had to ask.

"What happened?"

"Kono will...fill you in," said Keyes, glancing along the ground as he turned away. "I've got to go turn in my report to HPD headquarters. I'm...I'm sorry, Chin. I'll talk to you later."

They split; Coffman joined Keyes, walking him to where his car was waiting while Doyle went in another direction—Chin didn't fail to notice that the special agent taken Keyes' cellphone from him before he left, which would have seemed normal under these circumstances...except it didn't feel normal. That left Kono standing there, her arms folded across each other in a posture he easily read.

"Something went wrong, cuz," she said, speaking for the first time. She didn't sound like a cop right now. His normally fearless counsin sounded very scared. "Shots...shots were fired, and right before they hung up, one of Branco's men said a cop was dead." She brought the back of her hand to her mouth, on the verge of breaking down. "Chin, I think they killed Danny."

When she stepped forward, Chin wrapped his arms around his cousin in a soothing embrace—that did nothing to soothe the hammering of his heart or the painful lump in his throat.

* * *

-0-

The world was a drum beat and a haze, pounding around Steve McGarrett's head in an endless circle. Sweat tickled the side of his nose, ran in beads down his back, but he barely registered it. Everything was muted except for his thoughts, his imagination spilling images of a horror scene unseen, images that he couldn't chase away with willpower alone. There was blood on the pillar. There was blood on the floor. There was blood on Steve's hands. Not just Kamekona's blood, not the syrupy, sticky liquid that smelled twice as metallic in the encroaching heat, but the guilty blood of his partner Danno.

_You just took a stupid risk, okay? Understand that!_

The first day they met, shortly after being shot in the arm, Danny yelled at him for being reckless and stupid. For the first time that would precede many, many occasions where a little Danno ranting grounded Steve back on Earth.

_I am not getting myself killed for your stupid vendetta! I have a daughter, okay?_

At the time, it hadn't sunk in. He was distracted; his father had just been killed and this annoying cop was telling him off? Unbelievable.

It took time. Too much time, but the reality did eventually sink in.

Danny was here because he'd insisted on taking Kamekona to the bank. Danny was gone because Steve let him be the target while he played a stupid risk. He could wash away the blood of the hundreds of enemies he'd killed. He could wash away Kamekona's blood, but Danno's was never going to come off. He'd wake up every morning with blood on his hands.

And Keyes—

He stifled the surge of misplaced anger with a painful swallow. Keyes' slip of the tongue had just set off a ticking time bomb that Steve planted. Maybe a real cop would have known better than to try and lie his way out of a tightrope situation like this, but Steve wasn't an actual cop. He was a U.S. Navy SEAL with a badge and four man task force.

No.

Three man.

He'd expected Phil to shoot him, too. At the very least, they should have given him the same treatment they gave Danny. A zip tie, a personal guard, maybe a good beating to remind him who was in charge. Part of him wished they would try, because as soon as Phil got within five feet of Steve, the man was going to go down choking on his own blood. Tye would get much, much worse than that.

Maybe it was a survival instinct, because Phil didn't do anything. He just ordered his men to keep an eye on the windows. Only once did Steve get glance from the marauder responsible for his partner's death, and that was when he knew that Phil had already made him part of whatever twisted plans he was concocting. He hated cops so much, that death was just too sweet for the one who posed this much threat.

Someone moaned, drawing Steve out of his trance of self-loathing. Kamekona was waking up again, and once more Steve was reminded that he still had a duty to protect the rest of these hostages. Like a white hot poker behind his eyes, his rational thinking came back to him. He forced the grief under a shell, battened down the hatches, and shifted his weight backwards to look down at Kamekona's face.

"Hey. Welcome back," he said hoarsely. "How do you feel?"

Like always, the shrimp vendor's eyebrows crawled upwards in an incredulous expression that was also a wince. "Like I've been shot, brah."

"Right. I deserved that," Steve answered, wanting to laugh, but there was a great weight pinning that ability down. He eyed Phil's men. The closest man guarding him, Tye, was too preoccupied with a hostage's cell phone to notice them talking. "Hate to tell you this, but we're not much closer to getting rescued."

"Knew I shoulda taken the bus today," Kamekona repeated his earlier lament, closing his eyes again. "I don' care what you say, brah; you're payin' your tab when this's over."

"Kamekona, if we get through this, I'm buying you a new truck."

Steve didn't get a reply, and when he turned his head to check, he saw that Kamekona's chest rising and falling evenly—he'd lost consciousness again. Steve got the mechanical notion to check the bullet wound and change the bandage if necessary, when a scuffling sound broke the morose stillness of the lobby.

The noise sounded like a box falling over, and it came from the hallway that led to the back offices. Steve felt as if something were clamped around his heart, resigned to simply watch as Phil, Tye and one of the other robbers closest to the hallways spun around and drew their weapons.

"How the fuck did—" Phil took two steps forward, but stopped short. The glare he shot at Steve made it clear that he wasn't going anywhere that wasn't in line-of-sight of his new favorite hostage. Instead, he waved his firearm at the second masked man. "Brother, check it out. _Now_, dumbass, now!"

His 'brother' seemed to know better than to ignore a direct order, and took off down the hallway at a sprint. Tye, without waiting for an order from Phil, cocked his pistol and rushed after him, giving his black-clad comrade a theatrical slap on the should as if to reassure him that his back was covered. The whole time, Steve stared at the debacle with mouth slightly agape, but he was too practical to hope against insane odds that a still-somehow-living Danny could be involved with this action.

No. Danny was lying on the hardwood floor of an office, dead. Accept it, move on, and focus on rescuing the others.

Thirty painfully long seconds passed. Not even the youngest toddler amongst the captive tourists sniffled. There were some muffled voices from further down the hall, which then stilled, and silence returned. Steve had his gaze trained on Phil's face in the meantime, watching every facial muscle twitch beneath that mask and counting down the seconds to when head Branco finally snapped.

"Don't worry, brother," spoke a new voice, belonging to another of the robbers. "That's Archie and Tye, they're real good at this. Just give 'em time."

His tone of voice, the gentle pat on the arm suggested an actual blood relation. It lacked the stonewalled professionalism that passed between Phil and Tye. Steve realized with a sickening twist of the gut that this was Danny's influence speaking. As a SEAL, before forming Five-0, he would never have paid attention to these types of details. It took having a family of his own to realize these facts existed. It took having a brother to recognize the signs of brotherhood.

_Seriously, you're getting all sentimental now? Now who's got the sensitivity problem, huh? _

Even the Danno of his memories was making fun of him. How long before fake Danno started to haunt him instead?

Five whole minutes went by before Tye and Archie finally returned to the lobby. Tye immediately took the lead and confronted Phil himself, cradling the shotgun that he'd taken from their leader earlier. "Was nothing," he said gruffly. "Just some boxes fell off a desk, s'all."

No. Phil wasn't looking like a convinced man. Hardly surprising, considering the other mood swings he had previously displayed. If Steve wasn't already convinced that he was on some _extremely_ illegal drugs, then this moment would have been the one that sold him.

"Right," said the large, mentally unstable man. Without taking his eyes off of his second-in-command, Phil began to back up slowly. Each step brought him closer to Fausch's office door, brought his hand a little higher, until it was just inches away from turning the handle.

A cell phone rang.

Steve to realized belatedly that it was _him_ ringing. Wildly, he groped at his belt until he felt the shape of an unfamiliar cellphone clipped on his back. He had just enough time to rip it off, think _what the hell _ and notice that the screen said 'alarm on'.

Because that was when Tye's fist slammed into his jaw, and the taste of blood flooded his mouth.

* * *

TBC

**AN:** What, you thought I'd reveal Danny's fate this soon? You haven't met me, have you?


	6. Aftershave

_**Heist**_

* * *

**AN:** Some people are wondering about Steve whump. Don't worry. I'll whump when whump is within the acceptable whumpable whump window.

Whump.

Hee hee hee.

* * *

_Chapter Six: Aftershave_

-0-_  
_

The first blow stunned Steve, even though he had been expecting it in the back of his mind. The phone dropped from his hand, clattering to the floor. Pure muscle memory raised his left forearm to defend against the next incoming punch, barely knocking it aside before it could make contact. Then he was on his feet, and one of the most intense struggles he'd had in months began.

Phil's men raised their guns, but he made a gesture with a gloved hand. "No," he said deeply. "Just watch. This's gonna be good."

Tye was purposely herding Steve backwards with a series of quick jabs, which he avoided by ducking around a pillar and coming back up to swing at the masked man.

_He killed Danny. Danny's dead because of him. _The amount of pain he wanted to inflict on his opponent went beyond the humane; it went beyond everything he'd been trained to endure. This might be his only chance to get his hands on the bastard who pulled the trigger, since these guys were clearly walking straight into body bags.

Steve ducked under another wild swing, and then tackled Tye around the waist. They careened backwards until the robber's back slammed into the pillar where Danny had been shot. Steve's lip was bloody from a lucky punch, and he was certain he'd cracked Tye's nose, if not broken it. Tye's hands went up, and they were locked in two-way grapple.

"You're military, aren't you?" Tye grunted. He sounded inexplicably different, like a man having a casual bar brawl—not someone fighting his worst enemy in potentially fatal hand-to-hand combat.

"U.S. Navy SEAL, bitch," Steve snapped venomously. Of course he didn't have to know which branch of the military, but it had become a deep-driven habit to remind people he wasn't just a cop. Especially when Danny kept calling him an 'army' guy.

_For the record, a girl scout could beat this guy up. You could say your name is Junior Cadette Susie Pierson from the Flower Brigade; I mean, what's the difference? Oh, wait, I know. One delivers delicious cookies, and the other picks up random, uncorroborated murder suspects and terrorizes them with his fists._

Dammit, Danno.

_You're a guy who thinks 'concrete evidence' means smacking a guy's head on the sidewalk. Tell me I'm wrong. You can't, can you?_

The past Steve had finally just cracked a smile, shook his head and pointed his cup of shave ice at his friend. _You're_ _not wrong_, he'd said. _You're not right, but you're not wrong_.

A feeling of overwhelming loss wrenched that memory loose from Steve's mind. He headbutted his opponent before hooking his leg behind Tye's knee and pulling him down. They collapsed onto the marble floor, splitting apart—but Steve was fast, despite his sprained rib from earlier. He dove on top of his partner's killer and punched him. And punched him again. Tye grabbed his fist on the third punch and rolled them over, using his greater weight to pin him down.

"Your partner is alive," he whispered. Then he punched Steve across the face—and _pulled_ it. There wasn't enough weight in the punch to knock a bird off its perch, but it would look just as real to his fellow gang members. "In about ten seconds, you're going to—" Punch. "—take my knife, and fake unconsciousness." Punch. "Emelia and I will do the rest."

Steve spat blood out of the side of his mouth, too involved in his own, personal vendetta to take anything this man had to say seriously. Before he could do anything drastic, however, Tye hauled him to his feet by the front of his shirt and slammed him face-first against the pillar; Steve's arm was twisted behind his back painfully at the same time.

But that was when something was pressed into his hand. Something small and metal—the promised pocket knife.

Whatever Steve thought of Tye evaporated in that instant.

So when his attacker seized a handful of his hair and smashed his head forward against the stone pillar, Steve squeezed his fist shut and dropped like a fly. The blow wasn't actually powerful enough to do more than sting horribly, but he acted like it damn near killed him. He fell in a limp heap, making sure the arm concealing the knife fell behind behind his back.

Somewhere across the lobby, someone began clapping their hands slowly. Then Phil laughed. A cold, satisfied laugh.

There were layers upon layers of things running through Steve's mind. One: Danny was alive. He wasn't ready to fully accept that until he had more proof, because he wasn't open to believing the word of who was supposed to be his murderer. Still, the possibility existed now where it hadn't before. His close encounter with Tye taught him more about the man than words could describe—he was _definitely_ military, probably working with the CIA, FBI or even the local HPD. The only other explanation was, he was an ex-military rogue.

Rogues didn't help cops. This was an undercover job. It had to be.

Steve heard the familiar 'click' of Tye's pistol—the one he'd thought killed Danny—being cocked somewhere above his head. For a tense moment, he thought he'd been completely wrong, that Tye was just screwing with his mind out of spite—

"Wait!"

That was Alice's voice. The nice girl with the soft brown eyes and a surprisingly steady hand who had spent twenty minutes with Steve extracting a bullet from Kamekona's shoulder. The single person in the lobby, aside from Kamekona himself, who had ample opportunity to plant a cellphone on him. Suddenly, he could feel her presence behind his prone body. Delicate fingers carefully removed the knife from Steve's hand and tucked it into the waist of his pants. Then the same fingers slipped his shirt over the hidden blade, so it would stay that way.

"Just...stop," she said shakily, throwing her arms over Steve's torso. "I'll come quietly, Philio. I'll go! Just don't kill him, please! I love him!"

Steve couldn't see what was happening, but he guessed what Phil's face looked like right about now. He'd already figured out that Alice was the woman they were searching for—someone being chased by animals like these men had to be brave. And she was definitely not a coward.

"Emelia."

"Yes. Yes, I'm Emelia Susana Branco. I'm your sister," 'Alice' said desperately, with just enough emotion to make her act believable and not over-the-top. "I promise, I'll stop running. You can do whatever you want with me, Philio. Just don't hurt him anymore. Please!"

The sound of steady, heavy footsteps told Steve that Phil was walking closer to them. He was the only one of the 'robbers' who wore construction boots; with his added massive size, there was no mistaking it.

"Him?" Phil's voice raised significantly. Steve tensed his body, just in case things went south. "_Him?_ You're in love with a _cop_? My little sister sleeps with a fucking _cop_?"

"If you kill him, I'll swear I'll fight you," Emelia said through her teeth. "I'll scream and yell; you'll have to drag me by my hair. But if you promise to let him live, I won't fight. You can take me _home_, Philio. I really do want to go home," she sobbed. Genuine sobs. Steve figured her desire to go home was probably the most real thing about her.

"Philio," said a voice from the bank's entrance, interrupting the reunion. Steve recognized it; it belonged to Phil's other brother, the one who had kept him calm when Archie and Tye left his sight. "Brother, they got the van coming at us now. What do we do?"

"Plane leaves with or without us, in like, thirty minutes," said Tye. "Bro, we gotta go right now. Let's just grab her and fly, man."

Emelia was clutching Steve's bicep hard enough to actually cause pain, and he thought there was something strangely hostile about that. She had every right to be nervous; their ploy could unravel at any second. It was a possessive grip, though, one that he'd felt only during interrogations by ruthless criminals who wanted answers. But then, that wasn't completely unexpected for a young woman who had been chased by a madman for who knew how long.

"There's a honey gettin' out of the van," Phil's other brother observed. "Damn, she's sexy. Wonder if those cops'll mind if we take her out for a spin."

"There's only room for one cop in my van," said Phil. "Archie, tie that pig-lying fucker up; we're taking him with us."

The hand on Steve's arm tightened even more, if that was possible. A lot of years of practiced self control kept him from making a sound, however. "Philio, you can't-"

"Oh, shut up, bitch. Your bo-bo's just comin' with us to the airport, after that, I swear I'll cut him loose myself. You gonna make this a problem?"

There was silence, aside from Emelia's shaky breathing.

"Y'hear that, my good customers?" Steve had a feeling that this was addressed to the remaining hostages, judging by Phil's condescending tone. "The rest of you, I don't care about. But I hope ya'll catch some Hepatitis A and B before you go home, just to remind you of all the sweetness we've shared."

He was leaving the hostages behind. That meant Kamekona was going to survive. Paramedics would be the first people through the doors after the SWAT team invaded. It was a load of pressure off of Steve's mind, which would have comforted him if not for the fact he was still in a great deal of trouble personally.

Steve was really starting to wish he could open his eyes, but he wasn't going to risk exposure by trying. Now he could hear movement from everywhere; all of Phil's men were abandoning their posts. Phil himself must have taken possession of Fausch's cellphone again, because the next thing Steve knew, he heard the faint sound of redial over speakerphone.

"This is a courtesy call," said Phil, sounding too close to Steve's position for comfort. "I'm just letting all you cops know that I'll be boarding my getaway vehicle now. And just so you all don't get any ideas about followin' us, or trying to shoot me or something, I'm taking this cop with me. Not the blonde, stupid one; we accidentally put three bullets in him. I mean the ugly one who fights like a girl. Thank you for alls your cooperation."

A muted beep announced the end of the phone call, so apparently Phil had no interest in what the 'cops' had to say.

All of a sudden, Steve was moving. A pair of surprisingly gentle (though definitely masculine) hands hooked him under the arms and pulled his limp weight upwards. A second person grabbed his other side, who Steve identified as Tye by his unwashed smell, which he'd gotten a good dose of just minutes earlier—

Wait a minute.

Aftershave.

It took a full minute for the smell to hit him, Steve was just so used to it. That smell was in Danny's car, in his office, overwhelming the Five-0 men's room on their busiest mornings when he brought his shaving kit into work. It was constantly on Danno himself, so Steve experienced that stupid, musky aftershave every day whether he liked it or not. When he'd opened his couch to his homeless partner, it took a week to air out his main floor bathroom to get rid of it. Nobody in Hawaii would be caught dead using Danny's brand, either, because frankly, one had to be a nose-dead city dweller just to stand the smell up close.

One of the men carrying him was wearing that aftershave.

Archie, who wasn't really Archie, and probably hadn't been since he came back from investigating the back rooms.

Steve scarcely registered the sensation of a coarse burlap hood being tugged over his face, nor the feeling of his hands being wrenched behind him and bound up with a zip tie. He didn't even have to pretend the limpness of his body as Tye and Smells-Like-Danny began to drag him across the lobby floor, closer and closer to the sunlit south entrance. A mixture of emotion washed over him, not quite relief, not exactly happiness, but a strong combination of both.

"I'm telling everyone at the HPD you cried like a baby this whole time," said the all-too-familiar, husky voice in his ear. He sounded pained, a little wheezy, but so utterly alive that his voice might as well have been an explosion in Steve's brain "And since I have friends there and you don't, they'll believe me and not you. Also, I hate you."

Steve McGarrett was bound, hooded, and being dragged to an unknown destination under the merciless supervision of half a dozen well-armed criminals.

And the grin on his face couldn't have been bigger.

* * *

TBC


	7. Branco

_**Heist**_

* * *

**AN:** I realized that I've been titling my documents Hawaii1, Hawaii2, Hawaii3, etc. Then I thought, 'woldn't it be awesome if I got up to chapter 50, and had a document called Hawaii50?'

But then the 7-year-old in my brain took a nap. This chapter was a day later than usual because of pineapple.

* * *

_Chapter Seven: Branco_

-0-_  
_

It was excruciating, watching everything happen through the lenses of federal-issue binoculars. Chin had to let his cousin go, and stand back as she drove straight up to the gates of hell. Somehow, knowing that two highly trained snipers were positioned on nearby rooftops, fingers on their respective triggers, didn't help him feel any better. Snipers wouldn't be able to help Kono and Steve if one of the Liberitas gang members got off a preemptive shot.

Kono got out of the van quickly. The moment she did, the bank's entrance doors swung open, and nine bodies hustled through. The hooded man in front had to be Steve, while the younger woman behind him didn't look at all familiar. No doubt that this was Emelia, the one who was, unintentionally or not, responsible for this chaos.

Chin's heart lurched when one of them pointed a gun at Kono. His cousin was already backing up hastily, keeping her hands in the air. Kono didn't stop backpedaling until the gun went down; then she turned around and jogged back to where Chin stood behind the wooden perimeter.

He watched as they opened the back doors to the van. First, they pushed Steve inside, then Emelia. Two of the men in black climbed in after them, while the rest headed around the side. The largest man of the group got into the passenger side as another took the wheel.

"How long will your men wait before following?" Chin asked, lowering the binoculars to look at Special Agent Doyle.

Doyle gave him a grim look.

"I can't believe this. You're not sending anyone after them," Kono deduced , wide-eyed and breathless. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I've sent a team ahead to the landing strip. We've already secured both the pilot and the airplane they planned on flying out of Hawaii," the older agent explained. This time, there was no undertone of empathy—just business. "The best plan we have right now is to let them think they've won, waltz right into the trap at the airport."

"They'll kill Steve as soon as they see the plane," Chin insisted, barely suppressing a flare of anger. "He's useless to them when they no longer need a hostage!"

"I'm really hoping they don't," said Doyle, inclining his head slightly. "But there's nothing we can do for him from here, Detective. It's all up to Agent Tyler and his old strike team now."

The sound of tires screeching against pavement interrupted Chin before he could respond. He looked back just in time to see the white van peeling out of the semi-circle in front of the bank, and disappear around the corner of the block. That was the signal for the small army of police and federal forces outside to swarm into action. The SWAT team that had been stationed at every exit to the building burst inside, as half a dozen paramedics wheeled their kits and gurneys across the stone pathway towards the main entrance.

Everything in Chin's mind screamed that this was crazy. The FBI was perfectly willing to throw Danny and Steve's lives into the fire, and for what reason? It was all so evident. Because it fit their idea of a perfect endgame. Had Doyle and Coffman even drawn their weapons in defense of their own colleagues once? How many of their own people did they throw away so callously, just to prove a point?

Another part of him whispered, _but it makes sense._ They were mainlanders. They did not know the ways of this island, didn't know the meaning of o'hana. They had never seen their brothers squabbling over the price of spiced shrimp, or stand on the beach, competing to see who had the loudest cheer when they watched their little sister aced the avalanches of Hawaii's biggest waves. Without that willingness to protect their family, the concept of stretching the rules became a burden.

A burden Chin was more than happy to take off their hands.

He started to run for his car, when Kono's hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked at her in surprise; there was a touch of mischief in her expression, underneath all the stress and worry.

Chin was good at this—reading her mind, that was. He tilted his head at her, saying sternly, "Tell me you did what I think you did."

"What do you mean, cuz?" Kono responded with a small smirk, before revealing what she had been concealing in her back pocket. A pair of pliers. "Are you talking about the small hole I put in their transmission line to make sure they stall halfway to the airstrip?"

Sometimes, Chin thought his kid cousin had purposely undermined herself when she chose a career as a surfer. This was one of the times. There was no way to feel prouder of her in that instant. A grin stretched across his face.

"Think the feds have everything under control here?" she asked.

Looking over his shoulder at the mayhem that flooded into Honolulu West Estate Bank, Chin concluded that this was indeed the case. "I'd say our work here is finished," he said. "Let's go for a drive, cuz."

* * *

-0-

If it hadn't been for Danny, Steve wouldn't have been able to imagine a situation where he didn't get out of this van alive. Now he knew he wasn't completely alone. Undercover Tye or not, being hooded and thrown into a getaway car filled with cop-hating criminals wasn't precisely being on the 'up and up'. So he was very, very glad to know that Danny was not just alive, but there to have his back when he'd need him.

Judging by the smell, the man seated on his right was Tye, and Danny-In-Disguise was directly across from him. The entire vehicle jolted suddenly, and then they were careening away from the bank at top speed.

No sirens, no gunfire, no yelling—either the police were giving the quietest chase of all time, or they were letting Phil's crew get away. Right now, he wasn't sure which would be worse.

At the front of the vehicle, Phil's tenor voice had launched into a violent muttering in a rapid language, to which his brother was responding in kind. It was hard to tell over the sound of the engine, but it sounded Portuguese. Since Steve knew nothing of Portuguese, he could only helplessly assume that they were arguing over how many bullets they were going to finish him off with.

Steve waited. He counted. Every single moment mattered; it wasn't like they were going to get a second chance at this if he made a miscalculation. After ten seconds, he began to work his fingers under the back of his shirt and pulled the pocket knife from its hiding place. Then he set about using the surprisingly crisp edge to saw through the plastic bindings around his wrists.

"I'm sorry you got involved in this," came Emelia's hushed voice, breaking the terse silence. "You are clearly a good man. You deserve better than to die this way."

"I don't plan on dying today," he said in return, just as he felt the zip tie snap under the blade. He shifted the handle around so that he could use it as a weapon, should the need arise.

Though he couldn't see her eyes, Steve swore he felt her intense gaze on him, and it unnerved him. Maybe insanity ran in the Branco bloodline. She _had_ saved Kamekona's life, which she didn't need to do for any reason under the sun, except a sense of honor that her brothers definitely lacked. In another life, he might have even found that attractive in a woman.

Just not this woman.

What seemed like an hour passed—seemed like, but Steve's logic center in his brain told him it had only been ten minutes of gloomy driving. The windowless van (he knew it was windowless, because there was no flickering light through the burlap hood) had become a moving tomb.

All of a sudden, Steve became aware that Phil's bilingual argument had increased in volume. There was something happening at the driver's end of the van. He also heard the engine sputtering, the vehicle coughing and noticed the distinct sensation of slowing down. The slower they went, the higher Phil's voice went until they stopped completely, and Steve heard both the driver's and passenger-side door open and slam shut.

Then Danny kicked him.

It was time.

Steve swung his arms forward, ripped the black bag off of his face, and lunged for the back doors at the same time as his partner. They burst out into the tropical scene, side by side—Steve didn't break momentum, just reached for the masked face that he witnessed rushing at him from the driver's door. He seized Phil's brother's gun arm, just as the automatic went off in a three-round burst, and stabbed the pocket knife into his arm. The man screamed and dropped the gun.

A sharp blow to the face with his elbow, and Steve sent his first opponent's head smashing into the side of the van. Brother-of-Phil went down like a boulder.

He'd heard two rounds go off inside the van. He spared a thought to hope that was Tye shooting his former robber buddies, and not the other way around. They weren't going to hurt Emelia, but some of the most tragic things happened in crossfire situations.

The sound of a nine mil handgun went off several times on the other side of the van, but Steve didn't have time to think about that. He'd just barely grabbed the Beretta off the ground when the third unaccounted-for masked man appeared five feet away, pausing in bewilderment at the corner of the front bumper. He raised the shotgun in his hands—Phil's shotgun, Steve realized—and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Steve raised his arm and fired six rounds into the 'robber's chest, who toppled backwards and died before he even hit the ground. A tiny, preoccupied part of his brain silently thanked undercover Tye for removing the ammunition from that particular shotgun before he'd given it back to his would-be leader.

Then, for no reason at all, everything was quiet. A stifling, out-of-place kind of quiet, not the type that would make anyone feel safe. The forest around him had been silenced; any type of wildlife had fled the moment the first shot went off, and now there was a feeling blanketing the stillness the scene that was completely unnatural.

_Danny_.

That was all he needed to spin around and whip himself around the corner of the van, coming up just outside of the wide-open back doors. His gun was up, his muscles tensed, ready to tear holes in the first six-foot-four body he saw.

What he saw was the last thing he expected to find.

Danny was standing two feet away on his right, visibly undamaged. But the pistol he clutched in both hands was pointed at the ground. He looked as stunned as Steve felt, maybe even a little sick. Five feet in front of him was Emelia and the lifeless body Philio Branco.

Phil was in a heap at her feet, arms splayed out in odd directions. His mask was gone, revealing the square, dark tanned face that was now smeared with blood. More blood drenched his neck, seeping from the deep gash across his throat that had most certainly severed the carotid artery. The same blood glinted in the sunlight as it dripped from Emelia's hand, as well as the tip of the five-inch blade that she clutched.

The look on her face was nondescript. There was no emotion there, just blankness. Steve thought it very possible that she hadn't registered just exactly what she'd done. But she would, and soon. He knew he had to do something before it came crashing down.

"Emelia," he said gently, unsurprised when his voice didn't appear to reach her. Slowly, he lowered his arm and tucked the pistol into the back of his pants' waist—where he'd had a knife less than half an hour before. "It's okay, Emelia. It's over now. You can let go of the knife; close your eyes if you have to, but it's time to put the knife down. Okay?"

As he spoke, he edged towards her. He'd seen people in this state before, in a state of shock so powerful that they tended to react on pure instinct. Emelia's eyes flicked over to meet his, then glanced down to her dead brother, before reaching back up to steal his gaze.

"Steve," Danny's worried voice spoke from behind. His partner ignored him, knowing full well that his training in this field of post-trauma exceeded that of a New Jersey cop.

_Sorry, Danny_.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Emelia lowered her knife-arm as Steve approached. It hung limply at her side when he was close enough to put his hands softly on her shoulders. He held her brown eyes with his own. "You're safe now," he promised.

Like a bird flitting overhead, a stray thought chose to enter his mind at that very moment.

_Where was Tye?_

Emelia transformed. In less than half a second, she went from soft and broken, to a cold, glass statue. Steve felt the explosion of pain in his lower abdomen, the air choking from his lungs, and then he felt her deathlike grip clutch his back,. She was embracing him as would a lover, but firmly holding the hilt of a blade that was driven upwards into his chest cavity.

"Shhh," she said, which sounded like a hurricane in his ears. "Shhh."

* * *

TBC


	8. Emelia

**_Heist_**

* * *

**AN:** Yeah, I'm sorry. I've got projects and work bogging me down now, so my update time has been pushed to 'whenever the hell I get a spare few moments'. Here, some questions will be answered. Others I will continue to use as instruments of tyrannical abuse and torture that borderlines sociopathological disregard for human interests.

This is a slightly shorter chapter. Why? Because I figured it was fairer to upload a short chapter rather than make everyone wait much, much longer for a lengthier one.

* * *

_Chapter Eight: Emelia_

__-0-

"No...no, no, you crazy bitch!" Danny choked, as he lifted his pistol and aimed for the crazy woman's eyes.

Emelia seized Steve by the shoulder, twisted an arm behind his back, and spun him around. Blood was pouring—not gushing, but definitely pouring from the gut wound at an astounding rate. The knife, still slick with red, was pressed firmly against the SEAL's throat, sharp edge threatening his jugular with the same cold rigidity she'd used to disarm him.

"Ah, ah, ah," she said placidly. This was no longer the innocent visage of a defenseless female, replaced by the face of a killer with no emotion. "Right now, it will take at least ten minutes for your friend to lose his grip on reality. After that, two or three minutes before his heart finally stops beating. If you'd prefer I increase the rate of blood loss exponentially..." She let that thought hang, with the slight curl of an empty smile on her lips.

Danny's gun hand trembled slightly as it sagged.

"Good boy. That's a good detective. Now, put your gun on the ground. Slowly."

Steve's half-lidded eyes bore into Danny's. _Don't_, the look said. _Don't fall for this trick. She'll kill us both, and you know it._

Danny's mask had been pulled off during the scuffle with Philio Banco. It had only lasted seconds; of his two shots, only one skimmed Phil's shoulder. There was a brief manhandling fight, which Danny had been losing. One reason was his hundred and forty pounds versus Phil's two hundred and ten of pure muscle, but there were other factors. One of them was shaped like a bullet hole. If it hadn't been for Emelia, he might have had his neck snapped.

And every ounce of gratitude he'd felt was replaced with gut-twisting nausea.

"What..._why_ are you doing this?" Danny implored, not relinquishing his grip on the gun but keeping it lowered. Non-threatening. "I mean, whose side are you on, lady? What the hell is wrong with you?"

The question seemed to have a tantalizing effect on Emelia. Maybe it fed her ego, or maybe she was just bat shit insane. Danny didn't care. He wanted to put a bullet between her eyes right now.

"It's nothing personal, lover man," she promised soothingly, side-glancing at Steve's face with an intoxicated, devilish look. "It's just who I am. Now that my brothers are dead, I'm so close to freedom, I can smell it. Taste it. I needed you alive at first, because you're a cop, and my big brother _really_. Hates. Cops." She licked her lips. Then she laughed. "I needed the distraction. You know, Kieuka darling, he was so soft, so yielding...as I cut into his face, his hands, then...his throat." She tapped the blade against Steve's jugular. "But you, you're very hard. You don't whimper. You just seek death and suffer in silence, letting all the walls fade away..."

Danny thought the name Kiekua sounded familiar. He didn't think about it for long. There was no time to waste; Steve was losing blood quickly, and there was no way he could risk a shot when he was being used as a shield. Not at this range.

"Honey, you can wait for him to die and then shoot me...or you can put down your gun, and I'll let you go," she said with a glistening smile.

"Danny," Steve rasped, his blanched face drenched with perspiration. "Shoot her. Just _shoot_ her!"

_Take the risk,_ his eyes ordered. _We trust each other that much; take the damn risk!_

But Danny just couldn't. Even if he'd wanted to, to risk witnessing a bullet meant for the Wicked Witch of the West entering and shattering his partner's skull, he just couldn't. His arms wouldn't lift anymore, the pain from the bullet graze he'd received was shutting down all power to those muscles. Little by little, his fingers unclasped from the hilt of the gun. Then it slipped loose and hit the dirt.

"Thank you," said Emelia. Suddenly, she let go of Steve's arm and gave him a rude shove. Her would-be captive hit the ground and rolled over, gasping for the air knocked from his lungs. With horror, Danny saw that the wound had torn open more. Blood was everywhere.

He was so distracted by Steve, Danny didn't notice that Emelia had grabbed the automatic from his best friend's belt and was now brandishing it at him. He was so numb at this point, exhausted, injured and resentful, that he simply stood there and accepted his fate. At least, maybe, she would kill him and then leave Steve alone. Kono and Chin couldn't be that far behind them—he _knew_ his team—and they could still help Steve.

"It was hard," Emelia said matter-of-factly. As if she had just barely passed a high school exam. "To be honest. Seducing my former handler—the man who gained Philio's trust, enough to him straight to me. Spreading my real name around Honolulu, using myself as bait. Philio. Archie. Marco. They turned me into this—they _trained_ me, like a dog, when all I wanted was to live with my mother. Then I was seven, and instead of my 'family', it was the FBI, and the government, and the secrets and the lies. It got so crazy, I felt like killing myself..."

A look of delirious tranquility came over her as she took a deep breath and let it out. "Then I realized...I didn't have to die. I could just kill everyone. My brothers. The agents. Tyler. Everyone responsible for what I am. If that's the price of freedom, who's to stop me? God?"

Danny stared at her placidly before turning his eyes over to the other member of Five-0. Steve lay prone, almost motionless, except for the rapid rise-fall of his chest. The corners of his partner's eyes burned, maybe even watered a little, and the overwhelming numbness began to thaw, revealing the furnace of hate that lie beneath.

"Why us?" he asked, feeling the rawness of his throat chafe with each word. "My partner and I have nothing to do with your sad little history, lady. We don't deserve to die—at least not for your twisted little vendetta!"

"You're right," she purred, and tucked a long strand of black hair behind her ear. "But sadly, the world isn't fair, detective. You've been free your whole life, and me? I'm just a girl who wants her turn."

Danny stood with his arms slightly apart from his body and hung his head a little, before saying, "I was supposed to pick up my eight-year-old daughter two hours ago."

That didn't give Emelia any pause, but she did tilt her head in a perverted version of understanding. "She and I have something in common, then. Neither of us will ever see our daddies ever again."

The gun went off. The bullet ripped into flesh, lung tissue, muscle, and finally lodged in the curved breast bone. Danny stood, completely unnerved, having expected this moment for a while now.

Ever since he saw an unmasked Tye slide silently out of the back of the parked van and sneak around the other side.

Emelia's body jerked forward, swayed, almost crumpling at the knees. Behind her, the well-built, undercover FBI agent Marcus Tyler swooped in to catch her gently, lowering her to the ground with one arm wrapped around her body. He jerked the gun from her hand and threw it away, making soft shushing sounds to the sputtering twenty-seven-year-old woman.

"Hey, hey," he whispered, cradling her minutely convulsing body. His free hand went to stroke the hair from her face, so spattered by the blood she was coughing up. "It's okay. It's okay, Emelia. It's all over now. Go back to the beach, sweetheart. I'll be right there, I prom—"

But Emelia was staring at nothing, her mouth open in a silent cry of shock.

Danny didn't need to see the rest. The crazy bitch was dead.

The only thing keeping him from sprinting was the fact that he'd lost blood, and a lot of it. So he stumbled instead, teetering over to where Steve was laying on his back. Instinctively, he reached out to touch either side of his partner's face, pivoting it back towards him.

"Hey, Steven. Stevey boy, look at me. You're all right, alright? Stop playing Candyland in there, Steve. Look at me! Hey!"

Steve's eyes blinked back at him slowly, and one of his hands went to firmly grip Danny's—which were now pressed against the deep stab wound in his abdomen, trying to stem the blood still seeping out. "You...you were shot," he said, barely more than a whisper.

"It's just a scratch, don't even think about it. I mean, later on, I'm going to sue you for how many times I end up shot as your partner, but right now? Shut up." Danny stretched one hand out to grab his discarded ski mask off the ground, and wedged that up against the wound. He ignored the grunt of pain this kindled from his partner.

Steve was staring at him. It scared the hell out of Danny, seeing the unbridled fear in those Great Wall of China piercing eyes. "Thought you were dead," he said, and swallowed his pain down hard. "All I could think was...Grace would never forgive me."

"Seriously, did I not just tell you to shut up?" Danny asked. No, no, no. This wasn't happening. "I'm not giving you mouth-to-mouth, you sick bastard. Is that what you want? Stay with me! Stay..." Fatigue and disbelief punched the air from his lungs, shutting off the rest of his words. "Stay with me," he panted. "Just stay...stay with me."

'Stay with me' became a steady mantra over the next few seconds. Seconds that, unfortunately, were not on his side. Steve's eyes closed against the harsh light, his jaw becoming slack, his body losing its rigidity.

Just as Danny heard a car engine behind him, a door slam shut, a distant, nonsensical shout that might as well have been underwater...Steve stopped breathing.

* * *

TBC

AN: There's a lot of explaining in the next chapter, for those of you who have questions that start with, "Wait, but I thought that..." or "I don't get why..." Actually, it's going to be a pretty long chapter. Can't give an estimate of when it will be online, though. Sorry again.


End file.
